


Scar

by my_deer_friend



Series: My Deer Kinktober 2020 [16]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Blood, Blow Jobs, Canon Era, Cutting, Kinktober, Kinktober 2020, Knife Kink, Knifeplay, Light Bondage, M/M, PWP, Smut, bayonet - Freeform, everyone has a good time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:13:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27190900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_deer_friend/pseuds/my_deer_friend
Summary: Hamilton cuts himself while cleaning his bayonet. Laurens takes notice.---(Prompt 10 - knife kink, Lams)
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Series: My Deer Kinktober 2020 [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947265
Comments: 7
Kudos: 58





	Scar

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by a tumblr user who will remain anonymous for their own good (and who requested this "for the memes").

“Ah! Shit.”

Hamilton drops the bayonet he’s been cleaning with a clatter and sticks the bleeding palm of his hand into his mouth.

Typical. Of _course_ he’s cut himself, given the darkness of the room and how tired he is after twelve hours of non-stop work. He knows he should just have left it alone tonight, but he feels unsettled if he goes to bed before his equipment has been properly cleaned and set away. His coat is brushed and his boots scrubbed, so it was only this damned thing that needed a quick polish. Hamilton knows there are servants who could do this for him - in fact, Laurens needles him relentlessly about this habits towards mundane manual labour - but there is a pride that prevents him from surrendering tasks, even menial ones, and from relying on others to look after him. 

Besides he enjoys the way that the meditative, calming work signals an end to his day. 

He steps closer to the lone flickering candle to examine his hand. The cut is not deep, but it’s long - most of the way across his left palm - and blood is seeping out. He roots around for some stray cloth that he can wrap around it.

He hears the cot shift - surprising, because he thought Laurens was long since asleep - and then the quiet slide of metal against the floor.

“Jack, do you have a--” Hamilton starts, but the words evaporate on his lips.

A hand grips the back of his neck, and he feels the cold, sharp edge of the bayonet come to rest against his throat. 

He freezes, his hands mid-air, and swallows heavily. “Jack?”

“You cut yourself, Alexander,” Laurens purrs in his ear, low and heavy. “You need to be more careful.”

The edge of the blade grazes up the curve of his throat to the soft skin beneath his jaw. Hamilton tilts his head away instinctively, but the hand on the back of his neck prevents a proper escape.

He is not genuinely afraid that his lover will hurt him - or at least not _seriously_ , considering some of their wilder, rougher encounters - but even the suggestion of danger is making his cock thicken against the front of his breeches.

Laurens steps in close behind him, and Hamilton feels the matching nudge of a hardening shaft against his hip. A pulse of blood floods instantly to his groin. He doesn’t know what this new game means but, oh, is he willing to play it.

Hamilton swallows again, and sucks in a trembling breath. Laurens puts his lips to his hair and exhales hotly, and the blade slides down again, over the curve of his Adam's apple, and comes to rest at the base of his throat, on the jutting points of his collarbone. Hamilton can feel his pulse pounding against the cold steel.

Oh, god. This is delightful in a way he had never imagined.

“Take off your shirt.”

Hamilton sucks in a lungful of air and nods carefully, not trusting himself to speak. He raises his hands to untie the laces at the neck of his shirt - and only then remembers his bleeding hand when blood blooms on the white fabric. There are dark trails down his fingers, and drops of blood must have spattered the floor - but he has no way to turn and look. Ignoring the stains he is making, he pulls apart the laces and reaches for the bottom hem, but then stops, because he does not know how to remove the shirt without cutting it, or himself.

“Ah - would you release me? Just for a moment?” he whispers.

“Do I have your word that you will not try to escape?”

“Of course.”

Laurens lowers the blade, and Hamilton slides the shirt over the top of his head and lets it fall to the floor.

An instant later, Laurens’ hand grabs his hair from behind, holding him at arm’s length. The point of the bayonet comes to rest on the back of Hamilton’s neck, just below his hairline.

His heart is racing, now, and he is panting, shallow and tense.

“I have _told_ you countless times,” Laurens says scoldingly, and the point starts to scrape downward along his spine. Goosebumps blossom in its wake. “You should leave these mundane tasks to the servants.”

Hamilton tries to arch his back away, but he is held fast by his hair, and he risks losing his balance if he shifts too far forward. “You know I won’t do that,” he whispers, playing at defiance.

“Stubborn, even now?” 

“I’m just not spoiled, like you.”

Laurens barks a laugh. “Fine words for a man in such a precarious position.” He removes the point of the blade from the hollow of Hamilton’s lower back and maneuvers him by his hair to the chair at their little writing desk. “Sit.”

“And if I refuse?”

Laurens hums in contemplation for a moment, then Hamilton feels the edge of the blade against the back of his neck again. But this time it travels upward, towards the base of his skull, towards the hair being pulled tight--

“Stop, stop, I concede!” Hamilton gasps, before Laurens can slice away any strands of hair. They both know he’s more than a little vain about it, and that this was a well-considered threat. Laurens laughs softly, the blade retracts, and Hamilton sits down.

“Hands behind your back,” Laurens orders, and this time Hamilton doesn’t hesitate. Laurens places the bayonet down across Hamilton’s thighs as he reaches for a silk sash to bind his wrists together, and Hamilton stares down at it in awe, his blood singing with aroused anticipation at how closely it lies to his straining cock. Despite all good sense, he wants to feel the sharp kiss of that blade.

Laurens comes to stand in front of him, now shirtless himself, and Hamilton drinks in what he can of his glorious body, broad and strong and beautiful, by the meager light of the lone candle. He yearns to touch, but that won’t be allowed tonight, and the deprivation forces a whimper out of him.

Laurens smirks, then steps forward to pick up the blade and sits down in its place, astride Hamilton’s thighs - close enough to pull the fabric of his breeches tight across his cock, but not close enough for any desperately needed pressure. Hamilton tries to jerk up his hips and sighs in frustration when it doesn’t help. 

“Don’t move around so much,” Laurens warns. “You wouldn’t want my hand to slip.” He places the edge of the blade along the side of Hamilton’s jaw and rasps it along his skin, then traces the line with his lips and his tongue. 

Hamilton trembles at the contrast - cold and hot, firm and yielding, dangerous and beautiful. His blood thuds thickly through the veins in his neck as Laurens repeats the motion on the other side of his face, then places the sharp tip against the delicate hollow of his throat. This tension between fear and lust is stoking his arousal to a desperate height, and he tries hard not to squirm. But it’s too good, too much, and when Laurens traces the jutting ridge of his collarbone towards his right shoulder, Hamilton shudders so violently that the metal stutters and breaks his skin - a short, shallow slice. 

A flicker of worry crosses Laurens’ face, but their eyes meet and Hamilton can’t disguise how utterly the feel of the sharp sting has unhinged him. He holds the gaze and nudges his shoulder forward, deepening the nick. A drop of blood wells up where the blade is still touching him, then spills over and runs in a hot trickle down his chest.

Laurens removes the blade, then lowers his mouth to the drop and licks back up the trail it has left. When he reaches the cut, he presses his lips against it and sucks, hard.

Hamilton groans at the heat and the sting, and strains into the touch. Laurens’ free hand reaches back between his shoulder blades, pulling him more firmly forward and setting a delicious aching pull into his bound arms. When Laurens pulls back after a long moment of worrying to cut with his mouth, his lips are dark and flushed and Hamilton stretches desperately forward to taste them.

Laurens obliges, and his hot, familiar tongue carries a new tang of iron and salt into Hamilton’s mouth. Laurens digs a thumb into the mark he has left and Hamilton chokes into the kiss. He wishes he could see it; judging from the sharp burn and the dull ache around it, it must be livid and bruised. Thank god that it is well below the line of his collar.

When Laurens finally releases him, he puts his thumb to his mouth and sucks away the blood he has caught there. “My dear boy,” he murmurs, “You taste utterly delicious tonight.”

Hamilton can scarcely breathe for the kissing, for the sight of Laurens so debauched, for the way his thudding heart seems to crowd out his lungs. He twists his hips up frantically but the weight on his thighs is too heavy.

“Please,” he tries. “Jack, I need you.”

“Patience. I have not drunk my fill of you yet.”

Hamilton whines in frustration when Laurens stands, but it turns into an urging moan when he feels fingers unfastening his breeches. He lifts his hips up so that Laurens can slide them off - there’s no hiding how obscenely aroused he is - and then squeezes his thighs together in strained anticipation when Laurens removes the rest of his clothing as well.

Laurens pulls Hamilton’s thighs apart and kneels down between his spread legs; the twin glints of candlelight on steel and playful malice in his blue eyes make it clear this descent is no supplication.

“You are entirely at my mercy, Alexander,” Laurens murmurs.

Hamilton nods quickly. “Yes, yes, Jack, but _please--_ ”

“Quiet,” Laurens commands, and pressed the cold, flat side of the blade against his lower belly. “It is too late for begging. You need to suffer, Alexander, if you are to learn your lesson.”

The bayonet shifts. Laurens presses the tip of the blade into the flesh at the centre of his inner thigh, then digs it in until it breaks the skin. 

The flash of pain is sinful and sharp. “God, Jack, _fuck,_ ” Hamilton groans, panting open-mouthed as he tries not to cry out.

“Endure it, dear boy,” Laurens says roughly. 

“I _can’t_ ,” Hamilton groans. “Hold me still.”

Laurens smiles up darkly. “No.”

Shit. Hamilton feels a little tremble in the blade as Laurens starts to drag it up the inside of his thigh - though how he feels it over the shuddering in his muscles as he tries not to move he does not know. The passage of the blade is like fire, and he shakes even harder at the anticipation of the pain to come.

Laurens only removes the blade when he reaches the soft curve at the very top of his thigh, just a few inches from his most delicate place.

Hamilton pants to catch his breath and steady his racing heart, but he is too overwhelmed by sensations to manage either. He feels hot little trails tickling the skin of his thigh, and then a moment later Laurens’ burning tongue catching them, licking eagerly all along the skin, then sucking at the worst parts of the cut. 

Laurens pulls his mouth away for a moment to spit into his hand, then dives back in with tongue and lips and with teeth, too, worrying at the injured skin and sending agonising flashed of arousal straight into Hamilton’s straining cock. He feels the shifting of the shoulder pressed into his other thigh as Laurens takes himself in hand and starts to stroke, and then senses rather than hears Laurens moan into the skin of his leg. The free hand curls around Hamilton’s knee, holding him in place and preventing any escape from the overwhelming waves of wicked pleasure.

It takes no time at all before Laurens’ hand is pumping quickly and his moans turn into open-mouthed sighs and whines, though he keeps his lips pressed to the points where blood is still oozing slowly from the cut. Then his hand grips tight on Hamilton’s knee and he buries his face deep into the soft, aching flesh to stifle his groaning release. 

Hamilton’s thighs tremble in unspent need. “Please, Jack, _please,_ ” he begs after a moment. 

Laurens turns to look up at him, eyes dark and molten with pleasure, and Hamilton sees little smears of his blood on this cheeks and lips and chin; his own thigh is a mess of pale red streaks, at the centre of which the burning red line stands out like a crimson welt.

Laurens holds his gaze as he traces the hot tip of his tongue right along that line, and then continues to the crease of his thigh, to the base of his shaft, and then slowly, slowly along the underside and right to the head. Instead of leaving his lips there, where they are needed most, Laurens simply retraces the path all the way back down, moving even more slowly. 

Hamilton cannot handle it. He is so furiously aroused, so desperate for more that he tries to thrust forward; his trapped arms and his wide-spread thighs allow him no leverage. But he needs to release his boiling pressure somehow, so he does it through his mouth - groaning, whining, pleading, trying desperately to keep his voice down.

Laurens pulls his tongue away. “Can you not be quiet?” he teases.

“Jesus, no,” Hamilton breathes.

Laurens picks up the bayonet from where he discarded it and rises up on his knees.

“Open your mouth,” he orders.

Hamilton doesn’t think to question this; he parts his lips and Laurens places the blade between them. He bites down. The sharp edge catches one corner of his lip, and the tastes of blood and metal and the acrid tang of the polish flood his mouth. 

Laurens sinks back down. Hamilton keens around the unforgiving steel in his mouth and begs in broken whimpers, and Laurens needs no further encouragement. Almost at once his mouth descends on Hamilton’s straining shaft and he eagerly engulfs the cock in glorious wet heat. Fingers wrap around his base as Laurens works the tip in and out of his mouth - sucking, then lapping and pressing with his tongue, then stroking with his lips, over and over and over.

The blade in his mouth is heavy and distracting, keeping him on the knife-edge of arousal. Hamilton swallows and sucks air in around it, then presses his tongue up against it. He feels a sharp nick, and then the hot, bitter gush of blood. It’s enough.

His hips stutter madly as he crests into his climax, and even the blade gagging him cannot silence all of his unhinged keens of pleasure.

Laurens laps up his seed eagerly, then slides his lips off just as the contact is starting to become uncomfortable. He reaches up and takes away the bayonet. Hamilton gratefully swallows down the blood and spit pooling in his mouth.

“Are you all right?” Laurens asks. The smile he gives Hamilton now is more his usual kind, concerned and pleased and adoring. 

“Fuck, Jack,” is all he can manage to say as satiation and exhaustion flood his brain. But he smiles his reassurance.

Laurens stands carefully and moves around to unbind his wrists. Hamilton stretches out his arms, then prods gingerly at his thigh with his hand. The cut on his leg is not nearly as deep as he imagined in the heat of the moment, and seems to be closing over already. He suspects it might leave just the faintest scar, but that idea does not displease him in the slightest. 

When Laurens returns to the floor between his legs, he’s carrying a basin of water and a clean cloth. His touch is entirely careful now as he cleans Hamilton’s thigh, then his cut hand, then his cock. When he’s done, Hamilton gestures for the cloth and uses a clean corner to wipe away the dried smears of blood on Laurens’ face. 

Laurens catches his hand and kisses the back of it. They smile at each other tenderly.

After a long moment, the affection in the gaze becomes too much for Hamilton, so he breaks the mood with a quirk of his eyebrow.

“I’m not sure what you were intending to teach me, Jack,” he says teasingly, “But if you wanted me to abandon my bayonet to the servants, you have given me entirely the wrong lesson.”


End file.
